Justine Laraby and Kemina Lopez are intimate acquaintances yet they have never exchanged so much as a single word. For months, high school senior Justine, and famed model, “Kemina, the Baby Vixen” of Nightingale Lingerie, have been peering at each other across a narrow alley between brownstones in the Upper West Side of Manhattan. This mutual observation soon turns into the exchange of handwritten messages on signs they hold up whenever they come to their bedroom windows. Via this “sign language,” a friendship grows, and Justine learns that Kemina is, like her, a high school senior, but with a controlling mother and a modeling career that requires her to maintain an unnaturally thin physique. And through the window, she also witnesses her new friend exercising fanatically, hoarding food, and being physically and emotionally abused by her ambitious mother.

Window messages evolve into clandestine meetings and soon a tentative romance blooms. But Justine must come to terms with her own “mommy issues,” as well as accept her gender identity and sexual orientation, before she can provide Kemina with the support she needs to survive a family life that resembles a ruthless business transaction.

Will Justine be strong enough to throw open the window so Kemina can escape society’s suffocating expectations?

Mia Kerick is the mother of four exceptional children—all named after saints—and five nonpedigreed cats—all named after the next best thing to saints, Boston Red Sox players. Her husband of twenty-two years has been told by many that he has the patience of Job, but don’t ask Mia about that, as it is a sensitive subject.Mia focuses her stories on the emotional growth of troubled young people and their relationships, and she believes that physical intimacy has a place in a love story, but not until it is firmly established as a love story. As a teen, Mia filled spiral-bound notebooks with romantic tales of tortured heroes (most of whom happened to strongly resemble lead vocalists of 1980s big-hair bands) and stuffed them under her mattress for safekeeping. She is thankful to Dreamspinner Press, Harmony Ink Press, and CreateSpace for providing her with alternate places to stash her stories.Mia is a social liberal and cheers for each and every victory made in the name of human rights, especially marital equality. Her only major regret: never having taken typing or computer class in school, destining her to a life consumed with two-fingered pecking and constant prayer to the Gods of Technology.

Hi- It’s Mia Kerick and I’m here to share a recipe that I learned (through covert means) in high school.Do you have a favorite recipe that you are willing to share?

Yes- it is called…drum roll, please… Cookie Brittle. But before I tell you about it and it’s history, please know I AM NOT A COOK or A BAKER. I am the queen of take out, frozen meals, and fast food drive-thrus. But when I show up at a party with a plate of Cookie Brittle, no one cares about those minor details.

The Story of Cookie Brittle.

I cannot tell you about Cookie Brittle without telling you about my sort-of friend in high school, let’s call her Ruth Smith. (Her name was very plain, so this isn’t too far off the mark.) I met Ruth in middle school when she moved a few houses down from mine. I started hanging around with her as neighbors often do. And we started to spend more time together in high school, as we shared interest in music and drama. She wasn’t my favorite person, but I was a bit too intimidated by her to tell her this. Ruth was bossy and often attention-seeking, especially with the boys, but she didn’t have the kind of face or figure that easily attracted boys to her.Every weekday morning, I would walk to her house, and from there, Ruth’s rather mousy and diminutive mother would drive us to school, but only after Ruth finished complaining and ranting and raving about all the things her mom didn’t do for her well enough. And after eating the gourmet breakfast her mother lovingly made for her—home baked English muffins covered with homemade strawberry jam—I mean, who gets those things every morning for breakfast? In high school, I put my own Pop-tart in the toaster, just sayin’. At school kids tried to stay away from her because of her obnoxious behavior. And Ruth didn’t like it.And so she made a plan to rectify that situation. A very effective plan. And it involved Cookie Brittle.One day at drama club rehearsal for Bye Bye, Birdie (my single line in that play I remember to this day “He’s coming! He’s coming! Conrad Birdie’s coming!”) Ruth pulled out a brown paper back with little grease stains on the outside. In it was the most delicious treat I have ever tasted—Cookie Brittle—all broken up into pieces, which she distributed to the ravenous drama students. She then brought Cookie Brittle to band practice, and soon it made frequent appearances in the lunch room. And all of the students who had long avoided her like the plague, and in particular the always-hungry growing boys, couldn’t get close enough to her. It seemed that Ruth well understood the meaning of the idiom “the way to a man’s (teenage boy’s) heart is through his stomach.”Did Ruth share this recipe with me, her BFF? Are you kidding? Ruth refused to share the recipe with anyone. It was the key to her booming social life and she knew it. However, one day, I made Cookie Brittle with her, and despite Ruth’s efforts to distract me, I took careful mental notes. Ruth gave me no credit for being sneaky. I played dumb while we were putting the recipe together and then I scribbled the recipe down the minute I got home.And I kept this clandestine knowledge—the holy grail of Cookie Brittle—completely hidden. It was a private secret I shared only with my family.Until now.And I feel a bit guilty about divulging this.Sorry, not sorry, Ruth.

Mix in a bowl and then press onto a cookie sheet. Bake until…well, until it looks cooked. Let it cool on pan and then break it up like peanut brittle.

Excerpt:

But it’s not until the screen fills with the image of this baby seal, all white and fluffy with dark vulnerable eyes that we both gasp a little bit and then turn to look at each other. I can feel her breath on my lips and my nose is nearly touching hers, and, well, I don’t know about Kemina, but I’m all kinds of spellbound by this moment. She reaches up and touches my jaw, just below my ear, with this soft brush of her fingertips, and I have no choice but to lean down and kiss her. Not that I was looking too hard for another option. Cuz I wasn’t.I kind of thought that my first kiss would be like an electric shock or the sharp poke of cupid’s dart or fireworks exploding in a dark night sky, but it’s not like any of those things. The way it feels when my lips touch Kemina’s is soft and gentle and tender. It’s a yielding of her mouth to mine, and then mine to hers. It’s an intimate moment that’s breathy and warm and sweet and just ours.“Ummmm….” She lets out this sound that makes me think of how it feels to sink into a hot bath after a long afternoon of ice skating in frigid temperatures. “That was my first real kiss.”“Real kiss?” I ask. Our lips are only about an inch apart. I have a strong feeling that her second real kiss is only a moment away.